Dear CT:
I told you I wasn’t mad. That part was true.
But you turned me away when I was seeking safety and grounding. You withheld it from me, although you probably don’t know that. I don’t show expressions on my face, after all.
No, I’m not mad. I relapsed. I relapsed badly. For the first time in months, after holding back for so long, I relapsed. There was so much blood. The scars are going to last for years.
I’m not mad. But whenever I look at you, I relive the relapse. Every time your eyes find mine, I am reminded of my failure. I’m not mad; I’m terrified of relapsing again, and again, and again, until it’s back to the addiction, new scars every day and night. Fresh blood on my clothing and the stinging of dozens of wounds during my abulations.
I’m not mad. But how can I stand to meet your eyes when they make me want to rip my skin off just to forget?